


These Are the Dog Days

by MaggieLou



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Mythology - Freeform, One Shot, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieLou/pseuds/MaggieLou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane has always loved legends and songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are the Dog Days

The Godswood was once a quiet place for Sandor to escape to when the world grew too loud.  
Once seemed like such a long, long time ago.

Now, the great white tree he sits beneath shares the same grim expression that he wears as the snarls and yips of puppies breaks the silence.  
He once loved the songs of knights and ladies as a child. That spread to the love of legends such as the legends of the First Men and the creatures across the wall in the land that was always winter. He even grew to love learning about mythology of that mystery land across the sea and the great tales of old. Manticores and unicorns and half-human beasts and now he can recall one in particular called the hydra.

Similarly, when you cut the head off of a Stark, four more pop up in their place. 

Leaning back against the old bark, he nearly feels like someone is patting the old dog on the back in pity.  
His grey eyes watch silently as his litters run and play and swim before him. The eldest bunch—Eddard, Elinor, Rickon, and Robb—are nearly seven but they could pass for lads of ten while their sister looks as small as a mouse. She is of course was the one swinging a rather large stick around her head, grey eyes flashing, making her brothers duck for cover.

The next oldest litter—Cat, Robin, Jory, and Brandon—only four but already swimming like eels. Their mother had seen to that. All of her children could swim before they could walk it seemed, though in the North it seemed such a silly thing. But, if Sandor can remember correctly, swimming caused litter number two and maybe that’s why they had such an affinity for water.

The honorable Ned Stark, the buggering saint himself, sat before this tree and watched his own children grow—but Sandor wonders now what the man would think seeing these wolfdogs tearing up this sacred place. Certainly this wasn’t what he had planned for his daughter, a not-knight with a reputation to turn any septa’s heart black. Mayhaps he would be thankful for him to be putting some ferocity back into his line, though he couldn’t imagine Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn thanking him for doing what he has done to their daughter. A proper lady she was, never forgetting her courtesies. 

Sandor is still sitting quietly watching the chaos before him when his little bird enters the small clearing. While the eight of their brood are all wild as wolves with him, they are the most obedient dogs with her. He remembers her direwolf, Lady—and wonders if Sansa has a gift with wild animals. He watches her, gently running her hand over each brow and mop of wild black hair as she makes her way to him. The spell wears off as soon she her eyes leave them, and the wolfdogs are back at it.  
Tully blue eyes that are soft and gentle like the Mother are now looking over him sadly. 

“Wife?” He sits up straighter, his heart skipping a few beats in his chest as worry swirls in his chest. She steps forward, her body braced between his spread legs. Sitting down, he is still nearly face to face with her, and she shakes her head to turn and settles her body down. He watches her curl between his feet, her head resting on his right thigh while she keeps her eyes trained on her litters.

His hands shake as he reaches for her, wanting to know the sudden change in her mood from this morn to now. The weather is as close to summer as they will get here in the north. He has not worn a coat in near a month and his Lady has taken to wearing thin dresses of Dornish silks. 

“I used to hate this place.” Sansa begins suddenly, still watching her brood play about. She takes a deep breath, and Sandor finds himself toying with strands of the long red hair that is tossing softly in the wind. “But now, I dream about my siblings and how they all loved this place. I am the only one who wished to leave. Now I am the only one who calls it home.”

Sansa twists around, looking up at him. He reaches forward to brush his thumb across her cheek. A breath shudders from her as she leans into his fingers. She had feared him once, yes—but now she knows he is nothing but gentle with her. 

“All little birds fly south for the winter.” He speaks. “But they always return home to nest.” 

Sansa rears back, her blue eyes wide. He pulls her forward again, tugging her up so that she is standing before him again. She isn’t sure, until he places his hand over her slightly rounded stomach, full once again of wolfdogs. His lady wife hesitates for a moment, caught up in her beautiful head. It clicks, whatever sort of thought or emotion he wants her to understand. Then, she leans forward until their foreheads touch as she whispers her thanks. She pecks a kiss to his burnt cheek, her hand lingers there for a second and then she smiles—dark mood gone. In a whirl of silk she bids him farewell to head back to the castle and finish her duty. 

He watches her go, and wonders how many pups Jamie Lannister bought him this time after pushing Brandon Stark off a tower.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first finished fanfiction featuring these two cinnamon rolls. Please give any honest opinions!


End file.
